She Tempts the Duke (19 page)

Chapter 19

“W
here is she?”

“My lord,” Tristan began, trying to calm the man who had burst into the foyer shortly after the clock chimed midnight. One of Rafe’s men who was on watch outside had halted him until Tristan could be found. Fortunately he’d yet to retire, but instead had been enjoying whiskey in the library.

“Where is she?” Lord Winslow bellowed. “Mary!”

“Easy, my lord.”

Winslow glared at him. “Do you know what you’ve done to her? You and your damned brother? You’ve ruined her.”

“He had nothing to do with it,” a soft voice called down.

Tristan glanced up the stairs to see Mary standing on the landing. When he looked back at Winslow, the man’s face was so ruddy with anger that he feared he might have an apoplexy fit. “It’s not what you think, my lord.”

“She’s dressed like a servant . . . coming from the bedchambers,” he stammered.

She might be dressed like one, but she came down the stairs with such regal bearing that she’d never be confused for one. She’d pulled back her hair into a braid. It was a style familiar to him. She’d worn it often when she came to visit Pembrook but she certainly no longer looked like a child.

“You will come home with me this instant,” her father ground out.

“No. Sebastian is fighting a fever. Until it is gone, I will remain here.”

“You will defy me?”

“I have no choice.”

“They can hire a nursemaid.”

Slowly, regretfully, she shook her head. “No.”

“Fitzwilliam will not tolerate this blemish on your character or this—all night in a bachelor’s residence.”

“How did you know where I was?”

“I was at the club. Fitzwilliam was there. Said he sent regrets to the Morelands. He wasn’t of a mood to attend their affair with you at home nursing a headache. A headache. Of all things. You’ve never suffered so much as a sniffle. When I returned home and discovered you were not about, I confronted the carriage driver. He confessed to bringing you here. What sort of madness is this? Without your reputation, you have nothing.”

She stepped forward and touched his cheek. “I saved Sebastian once before. I can do it again.”

Winslow glared at Tristan. Tristan merely shrugged. “I tried to convince her to leave, my lord. She’s rather set on staying. One of the female servants is with her. I can send them all up if it’ll put your mind at ease. We owe her our lives. We would never take advantage of Mary.”

“It doesn’t matter if you do or not. The gossips will have a field day with this.”

“I’ll explain to Fitzwilliam,” Mary offered. “He’ll understand.”

“Don’t count on it, my girl. And then what? No other man will have you. Men do not fancy spoiled goods.”

“She’s not spoiled,” Tristan ground out.

“In the eyes of Society she will be.”

“Only if you say anything,” Mary said quietly. “If you back my story that I was abed with a migraine, no one need know differently.”

Tristan watched Lord Winslow struggle with his decision. He could only hope he never had any daughters. They appeared to be a great deal of bother.

Finally, Winslow nodded. “The matter of your presence here is to stay between us. I’ll have your word on that, Lord Tristan.”

“You have it.”

“All right then. When you can return home, Mary, you do so by cover of night.”

Instead of answering, she stepped forward, hugged her father, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Then she was scampering back up the stairs to care for her patient.

“She’s a brave girl, Winslow,” Tristan said somberly.

“That will be little consolation, my lord, if word of her presence here does get out.”

H
is arm was dead. Yet he would not move because to do so would be to awaken her.

She was in a precarious position much worse than a kiss in a garden. She was in his bed, her head nestled on his shoulder, and although he couldn’t quite feel it, he knew his arm held her near. It didn’t matter that she was fully clothed.

She was in his bed.

How long had she been here? How long had the fever raged? His side ached, was tender. He remembered fleeting images: the physician, Tristan. Rafe. Briefly. Once.
Don’t you dare leave me again
. Or was that a dream? Mary. Cool water trickling down his throat. Cool cloth on his brow. Gentle reassurances, soft voice. Mary’s voice. Always Mary. Tender touches. Mary. Encouragement. Mary. Awful-tasting broth. Mary. The fading scent of orchids. Mary.

Her hair had escaped the ribbon she’d been using to hold it back while she nursed him. So thick. So curly. However did she manage to pile it all on her head as she did? With the arm that still had feeling, he sifted his fingers through the strands that appeared to be coarse but felt like silk. Just like that night when he’d thrust his hand into her hair, thrust his tongue into her mouth. Barbarian. For a few moments, lost in her, he’d been able to leave behind the decisions that haunted him, the scars that marred—

With a jerk, he touched his face. Dammit! Where was the patch?

He twisted. On the far table. He couldn’t reach it, pinned beneath her weight as he was.

She moaned, sighed, and he realized that his movements had disturbed her. Thank God, she was nestled on his good side. He could save her the grotesqueness. Although it was a bit late to spare her completely.

She lifted her head, squinted. “Relax. That side is in shadow.”

Her voice was that of a woman roused from slumber, and something in his belly tightened as he imagined her rousing from slumber after a night of passionate lovemaking.

A night with Fitzwilliam.

If her reputation weren’t completely tarnished. Again, he had to wonder how long she’d been here.

She stretched, a slow, sinuous movement that thrust out her breasts and challenged the buttons of her bodice to remain secured. Unfortunately they met the challenge splendidly.

Where had that thought come from? This was Mary. Friend, advisor, nurse. Woman. It was the last that unsettled him. Every time he saw her, he was reminded that she’d grown up, but here in his bedchamber he was well aware that they’d both grown up. The games they could play now were not innocent, would not result in giggles and laughter. Rather they would include long moans and deep groans—

The blood rushing into his arm caused painful pinpricks that brought his thoughts round to where they should have remained. “Your hair is a mess.”

She laughed lightly, clearly not offended by his critical assessment. “I got caught in the rain coming here. I did little more than dry it which means it had its way. It takes much work to keep it tamed.”

“I like it wild.”

She stilled, her breathing shallow, her gaze on his as though he’d given her an uncommon compliment. She slid off the bed, and he could see her more clearly now. She wore a ghastly black dress that made her look like a crow.

“Anticipating going into mourning over my death?” he asked lightly.

She smiled again, although not as brightly. “I knew you wouldn’t die. I wouldn’t let you.”

Just as she’d refused to stand by while his uncle plotted his death.

“You’re feeling better. I was so relieved when your fever broke last night,” she said.

“How long?”

“Three nights.”

“You’ve been here the entire time?”

She nodded. “Father knows I’m here. He’s not happy about it.”

“I would think not.”

She gave him a scowl. “But he’ll do what he can to keep my whereabouts a secret. Tristan threatened the servants with dismissal if one of them spoke of anything that transpired within the residence. He can be quite intimidating.”

“He should have intimidated you into leaving.”

She grinned. “He tried.” Her smile diminished. “I couldn’t bear not being here while you suffered. I wish I’d been there for all your suffering.”

She blinked rapidly, and he knew she was on the verge of weeping, bravely fighting it off because she knew he abhorred tears. He wanted to tell her that he was glad she hadn’t been there. It would have only made things worse because he would have worried about her. Just as he worried now. Three nights. Her reputation would no doubt be in shreds.

“How will your father explain your absence?” What was wrong with his voice? Why did it sound accusing?

“Not to worry, Keswick. I’m not your responsibility. I shall send in your valet to tidy you up and have your cook send up a tray. Rest and regain your strength. I fear your uncle is not done with you yet.”

She turned to leave.

He pushed himself up, swung his legs off the bed, and realized he wasn’t dressed for company. He wasn’t dressed at all. He clutched a sheet to his waist. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

She looked back at him as though he’d said the silliest thing she’d ever heard. “Remain my friend.”

Did she think there was any way in hell that he wouldn’t? That he couldn’t? Besides his brothers, there was no one he cared for more. But even as he thought it, he realized that his feelings for her now were not what they’d once been. He wasn’t quite sure what they were. He’d gone swimming with her as a child and not given much thought to her undergarments clinging to her body. Now he would give it a great deal of thought. Would notice the shadows that tempted a man, that tempted him.

“Always,” he rasped so low that he wasn’t even certain if she heard him.

“I’ll see to your comforts. Then I must return home.”

Don’t go,
hovered on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back. He would not show weakness, could not rely on anyone. That he already had far too much angered him. He needed to regain his strength and return to Pembrook.

In London he was doing little more than ruining Mary’s reputation. He needed to distance himself from her. Maybe then he would stop hurting her.

Chapter 20

“M
y father is most displeased with the gossip that is making the rounds. It seems things have moved from a kiss to your spending the night in Keswick’s residence.” Lord Fitzwilliam uttered the words as though unable to truly countenance them.

As soon as Mary had ensured that Lord Tristan would be aroused from slumber to watch over his brother, the valet was on his way to Sebastian’s bedchamber, and a servant was preparing a tray for him, she asked for a carriage. After returning home, she fell into a sound sleep in her bed that lasted into the afternoon. She’d barely finished bathing when she was informed that Lord Fitzwilliam had come to call. In her father’s library. Where he had proposed.

He stood implacably before her just as he had when he’d heard the gossip about the kiss. The gossip that had since reached his ears was much worse. So worse in fact that her father stood near the decanter table pouring amber liquid into a glass and downing it with such ferocious speed that she wondered why he even bothered with the glass.

“You were not to speak to Keswick—”

“I didn’t. The entire time I was there, I spoke not a single word.” Not precisely a lie. She had whispered, cajoled, soothed, reassured. And not once had she spoken only a solitary word. She’d always spoken at least two. She knew she was splitting hairs but she didn’t like being chastised.

“You were in his residence for three nights.”

She looked to her father. He merely shook his head. So he’d not told. Then how had Fitzwilliam learned—

“Someone saw you going in,” he said as though she’d asked the question aloud. “Someone saw you leave.”

“So Lord David has posted spies.” She didn’t want to contemplate that perhaps it was Fitzwilliam with the spies. “Keswick was ill. He couldn’t take advantage of the situation. And even if he could have, he wouldn’t have.”

“No, he leaves taking advantage of you to moments in the garden.”

“It was one moment and he didn’t take advantage.”

“So you welcomed his attentions.”

Sighing, she studied her clasped hands. They were bare of jewels. She suspected they would never be adorned with a wedding band. “We’ve been over this. I see no reason to rehash.”

“I fear I must withdraw my offer of marriage.”

Her chest tightened and she squeezed her eyes shut. She’d known this could be a possible outcome to her actions. She swallowed hard, opened her eyes, and with all the fortitude she could muster, she met Fitzwilliam’s gaze. “Of course, my lord. I had expected no less.”

For a moment he looked uncomfortable, regretful even.

“I regret any pain or humiliation that my actions have caused you,” she said. “I believe you to be a good man and that marriage to you would have been satisfying. But it is not in my nature to ignore someone in need, regardless of personal consequences. A quality which I believe would make me an exemplary wife, but a very challenging one.”

As he studied his polished shoes, she almost thought she detected a smile on his face. “My father insists that I end this arrangement before any more damage can be done to my family’s good name. While he cannot keep from me upon his death all that is entailed, he can keep funds from me until he dies. I have no source of income other than his generosity.”

“My lord, if I may,” her father said, stepping forward. “I could see my way clear to increase her dowry.”

“Would it bring in five thousand a year?”

Her father bowed his head and she ached for him. “No, my lord. A thousand, perhaps two at best.”

“Then regretfully it will not suffice. Besides, my father no longer believes Mary will make an exceptional marchioness. My family does not tolerate scandal. I do not wish to fall out of his favor.”

“I can hardly blame you for that,” she said.

“I wish you the best.” With a perfunctory nod, he strode from the room.

She thought she should have felt bereft but all she felt was exhausted beyond belief.

“I should not have allowed you to stay,” her father said.

“It doesn’t matter. Someone was already watching. I need to let Sebastian know—”

“Mary.”

“A letter. That’s all. But he needs to know there may be a spy in their midst.”

“Send your letter, then pack your things. We leave in two days.”

“And then?” she asked.

“I’ve not yet decided.”

“I don’t wish to return to the nunnery.”

“I don’t wish to send you back.” He poured brandy into his glass and downed it. “Mary, I know you considered the nunnery a punishment, but I didn’t know how else to protect you. You were such an impulsive child and headstrong. I was afraid you’d confront Lord David.”

She hadn’t half-thought about it. “So you believed me?”

“I know as a lad he enjoyed pulling wings from flies. But you see I’ve never been good at confrontation. All we had were words that you might or might not have heard.”

“I heard them.”

“If he knew he might have seen you as a threat. The night you went to his ball . . . I didn’t want you to go but Fitzwilliam insisted.”

So he’d capitulated. It hurt to realize how weak he was. She had always loved him, thought him a giant among men. But he was so easily dwarfed.

“Were you going to leave me at the convent forever?”

“I don’t know what I’d planned. I was too far into the drink by then. Didn’t want you to see me. But your aunt, bless her, she took matters in hand. The drink calls to me so much, Mary. I was so pleased when Fitzwilliam showed an interest in you. You would be in Cornwall. Safe. I never thought to marry you off as a way to protect you. But your aunt had the right of it. But with the Pembrook lords back now, they can fight their own battles. Lord David will leave you be.” He refilled his glass and downed the amber liquid. “You were deserving of a better father. I will talk to my nephew, make him understand that he must give you a yearly sum.”

With her father’s lack of forcefulness, she wasn’t certain how well that would go.

“Perhaps when we return to Willow Hall, we can put our heads together and come up with something,” she offered.

Nodding, he turned once more to his brandy. She had never before felt like such a burden. She rose gracefully and glided from the room, leaving him to his demons. She thought she would have made an excellent wife to Henry VIII, facing doom with her head held high.

“O
ne of us has to marry her.”

Settled in chairs in the sitting area within Sebastian’s bedchamber, neither Sebastian nor Rafe blinked at Tristan’s pronouncement. Tristan stood at the fireplace, his arm pressed to the mantel, his thumb rubbing on the marble as though he’d discovered a bit of dirt that simply wouldn’t go away.

Sebastian had yet to leave his bedchamber. He was healing slowly and he exhausted easily. He’d asked Tristan to scout around and determine if Mary’s reputation was safe.

Apparently it wasn’t.

“Suppose we could play a round of cards,” Rafe began. “Loser gets saddled with marriage.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to cheat,” Tristan said.

“Question is: would I cheat to win or cheat to lose?”

“We are not going to decide this with a game of cards,” Sebastian growled. “Besides, the decision has been made.”

“Oh?” Tristan arched a brow. “And who’s it to be then?”

“You. You’re the one who allowed her in here and then let her stay.”

He’d expected his brother to protest. Instead, he simply gave a curt nod. “Right, then. I’d best go ask for her hand while she’s still in London. Word is that her father is sending her away.”

He’d taken but two steps before Sebastian ground out, “Damn you, Tristan. You know it will be me.”

Sporting a mocking smile, his brother returned to the fireplace. “For a moment there, I thought you’d regained your teasing nature.”

He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed initiating a good jest. “You’re the one with the teasing nature. I was ever the more serious. That was how she told us apart.”

“I suspect it went deeper than that.”

Perhaps, but Sebastian was in no mood to explore what might have been. Instead he looked over at Rafe. “I assume you’re not madly in love with her.”

“Wouldn’t matter if I was. Marriage is not for me.”

He almost asked Rafe to explain, but the younger seemed intent on remaining a mystery. Sebastian shifted his attention to Tristan. “Would you give us a moment?”

“Without my feelings being hurt.”

Tristan was making a point. Sebastian suspected his twin was growing weary of Rafe’s moodiness.

“I’ll have a carriage readied for you,” Tristan continued as he strode from the room.

Now that Sebastian was alone with Rafe, he wasn’t sure what he wanted—needed—to say. “While I was fevered, I dreamed that you hovered over me and commanded me not to leave you.”

Rafe lifted his broad shoulders in a careless shrug. He was only twenty-two but his eyes made him appear older, perhaps even older than Sebastian. “Tristan thought you might die. So I came.”

“I would have taken you with me if I could, but if we remained together we had a better chance of discovery, and I feared that would lead to our deaths.”

“You could have put us all on one ship.”

“And if it sank in a storm, who would have been left to take back from Uncle what he stole? By separating there was a chance that at least one of us would survive to have retribution.”

“Who would have cared? Land. Title. They’re not flesh, they’re not blood.”

“They’re our heritage.”

“So is our blood.” He averted his gaze. “We’ll never agree on this. It’s in the past. It’s pointless to argue over what we cannot change.”

“I won’t ask for forgiveness because I don’t believe I did anything that requires forgiveness. I did what I thought was best at the time. Perhaps with age or experience I would have made different choices.”

Rafe shifted his gaze over, pinned Sebastian with it. “Will you be able to say the same about Mary?”

“No. From her, I do hope to one day earn forgiveness.”

A corner of Rafe’s mouth curled up. “I’m glad to hear that. I was beginning to think you considered yourself without fault.”

“Hardly. I have many and can only pray that Mary will not suffer overmuch because of them.”

And he could only hope that she would accept his offer of marriage. He’d spoken true. He didn’t think he owed Rafe an apology but that was not to say that guilt didn’t gnaw at him on a daily basis. Now he would add Mary’s ruination to his list of regrets. Mary.

A woman whose misfortune it was to serve as his savior.

“I
f Fitzwilliam truly loved you, he’d have stood up to his father. He’d have found a way to have you,” Alicia said.

She’d arrived an hour earlier to assist Mary with her packing, but all she’d done so far was sit on the bed and watch.

“He never claimed to love me,” Mary told her.

“But he asked for your hand in marriage.”

“I suspect he loved the idea of my dowry. Besides, you’re quite right. He should have stood up to his father. That bothers me more than his lack of love. To think that he would not have been his own man, that he would have been under his father’s thumb”—she shivered thinking how easily her father capitulated on matters—“marrying him would have been a dreadful mistake.”

She didn’t want to contemplate that she felt this way because of Sebastian. He was his own man, made his own decisions, stood his own ground. Of course, his father was dead, but she couldn’t imagine that he would have allowed his father to decide how he would live his life.

“I hate that you’re leaving. The Season is not yet over,” Alicia lamented.

“For me it is,” Mary assured her. “You should have my gowns. They will require a bit of adjustment in the length, but I’ll have no need of them.”

She could see her cousin struggling with being both joyous at the additions to her wardrobe and sad because of what gaining them signified.

“It’s just not fair,” Alicia said.

“I knew what I was doing. I knew it was foolish. I knew it would have repercussions.”

“Then why do it?”

How to explain? Mary stopped folding the nightdress. She should have had the maids packing for her, but she’d needed something to occupy her today lest she go insane with the waiting for tomorrow. Silly girl to spend her time here. She should go to the park and enjoy what she could of London while she was still here. “They’re so alone here, Alicia, when they shouldn’t be. They did nothing wrong, yet everyone looks at them with suspicion and doubt. Their uncle’s word holds more weight than theirs. They are strangers in this world into which they were born. When I saw how ill Sebastian was, how much he suffered . . . I simply couldn’t
not
be there. For all intents and purposes everyone else had abandoned them and I won’t.”

“That’s what Fitzwilliam should have said to his father. Something along those lines.”

“If he believed in me, then yes, I suppose he should have.”

“Mama is striving to convince Uncle to let you stay with us.”

“She’ll have no luck there.”

“Did you love him?”

“When I was a child, yes.”

Alicia puckered her brow. “I thought you only met Fitzwilliam this Season, at the first ball.”

Mary slammed her eyes closed. Why were her thoughts constantly turning to Sebastian? “Yes, you’re quite right. I was fond of him. I don’t know if I loved him. It seems to me that if I did, I’d be stretched across the bed weeping.” She plopped down on that very bed beside Alicia. She adjusted the feather pillows behind her back. “I should be inconsolable, shouldn’t I?”

“If you loved him, I should think so. May I be honest?”

“Are you implying that in the past you’ve been dishonest with me?”

Alicia gave her an impish grin. “Never on purpose, but this matter, well . . . I never thought Fitzwilliam was quite right for you. He is just so terribly . . . staid. He’s rather like a boiled egg. Anytime you crack it open, you know exactly what you’re getting.”

“A boiled egg. How flattering. And what sort of
egg
should I marry?”

“I’m not certain you were meant for an egg at all. Christmas pudding, perhaps. You never know what you’ll dish out.”